Requiescat in Pace?
by Mad about the Boro
Summary: Upon his death, Ezio had many regrets about his life; now thanks to the Apple, he has a chance to do things right.


**_Disclaimer: Anything you recognise, I do not own!_**

**Chapter 1:**

Ezio, walking down the street a few paces behind his wife and children, suddenly winced as a fit of coughing took him. He leant against a wall for support.

In a moment Sofia was by his side.

"You should have stayed at home."

He Smiled at her. "I am home."

"Sit down, here." She indicated a nearby bench. "Wait for us. We'll be right over there. Only take a minute or two."

He nodded, watching her rejoin the children and wander off a little farther down the street. He made himself comfortable, letting the pain subside.

He watched the people walking to and fro, going about their daily business. He felt pleased, and enjoyed watching them. He breathed in the smells of the market as it broke up around him. He listened to the sound the traders made.

"I love it here," he said to himself. Home. Home at last.

His reverie was interrupted by the peevish voice of a young Italian who plumped himself down on the bench near him. The young man was talking apparently, to himself. He didn't look at Ezio.

"_Al diavolo!_ I hate this damn city. I wish I were in Rome! I hear the women there are… mmm… like Sangiovese on the vine, you know? Not like here. _Firenze!_" He spat on the ground.

Ezio looked at him. "I don't think Florence is your problem," he remarked, distressed at what the young man had said.

"I beg your pardon?"

Ezio was about to reply, but the pain seized him again. He winced and started to gasp. The young man turned to him "Steady, old man."

He grabbed Ezio's wrist as Ezio caught his breath. Looking down at the hand that held him, Ezio thought the grip was uncommonly strong, and there was something strange, almost familiar, about the man's expression. But he was probably imagining it all. He shook his head to clear it.

The young man looked at Ezio closely, and smiled. Ezio returned the look.

"Get some rest, eh?" the young man said.

He rose to his feet and walked away. Ezio nodded in belated agreement, watching him go. Then he leant back, seeking Sofia in the thinning crowd. He saw her at a stall, buying vegetables. And there beside her were Flavia and Marcello, baiting each other, playing together.

He closed his eyes, and took some deep breaths. His breathing calmed. The young man was right. He should get some rest…

A strange, ethereal, golden light flickered, illumination the darkness around him. It's source… a small round sphere, a little bigger than his fist… '_the apple!'_ He realised.

A translucent figure appeared, formed from the light, gliding forward with otherworldly grace. '_Minerva'_. The name flitted teasingly though his mind.

She offered a sorrowful smile. "Return…"

And the vision faded.

The wind thrashed against his back as gravity pulled him down. He was falling. Instinctively his body moved. Legs together; arms outstretched; back straight; body angled parallel to the ground, spreads the impact to minimise damage. A leap of faith.

A few seconds later, he felt himself land in a stack of hay, softening the fall.

Opening his eyes Ezio crawled out of the hay and took immediately started to check himself for injuries, only to freeze as he saw his hands. They were… young? The skin smooth and soft, free of all the calluses and scars that he had acquired throughout his hard life.

For a moment he stood there in shock, just staring at his hands. All smooth and young, as they had not been for decades, not since he started to train with Mario in Monteriggioni.

'_I feel… stronger. Better than I have in years…'_ There was no aches from his weathered bones. No phantom pain from old wounds…

Shaking out of his reverie, he swiftly examined the rest of his body as best he could. He found himself clad in tight leather breeches, covered in knee high boots, a white open collar shirt, covered with a black leather vest, a simple belt encircling his waist & two bracers cuffing his wrists. The attire of a young Florentine nobleman, garb he had not worn since the tender age of 17.

Looking up he saw he was still in Florence, standing in front of the Palazzo della Signoria, at the colossal prison tower that he had just fallen from. The same fall that he made 48 years previously after visiting his father in his cell.

Confusion saturated his thoughts as the embers of a suspicion flared in his mind. But that was impossible, not even the Apple could do that! '_Or could it?'_ he heard a small voice whisper…

But this was neither the time, nor the place. Whatever was going on, he'd have to figure it out later. Experience had taught him that being caught standing in front of a prison, staring up at the tower, was never a good thing.

With this in mind, Ezio set off across the palazzo, blending seamlessly into the crowd as he went. He would investigate this later…


End file.
